


It's Friday (I'm in Love)

by punk_rock_yuppie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Canon Divergence, Drinking, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Friendship, Get together fic, HD Wireless 2018, HP: EWE, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, M/M, Multi, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Self-Loathing, Switching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-05-20 11:35:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14893871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punk_rock_yuppie/pseuds/punk_rock_yuppie
Summary: At first, Draco only hangs out with them on Fridays after work; then he starts shagging Potter after pub nights. Then all the rest of the gang tries to befriend Draco and even worse, Potter tries todatehim. It’s an absolute disaster, if you ask Draco.Or, Draco and Harry fall in love over the course of several Fridays and some other days of the week.





	It's Friday (I'm in Love)

**Author's Note:**

> Heya! Here's my entry for HD-Wireless 2018. This is my first time doing an anonymous fest, and it's been a lot of fun. I'm so excited to see everyone else's creations! 
> 
> My prompt was ["Friday I'm in Love" by The Cure](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_QC00oZ1q10)! I feel like I sorta played fast and loose with the idea of the prompt, but hey! The song is mentioned, there's Fridays, and lots of love. 
> 
> Huge huge huge thanks to [cathect](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathect/pseuds/cathect) for beta'ing, as always! This went through so many revisions, she was really a trooper for helping me with all of them! (also huge apologies to the mods, as it took me several attempts to figure out how to post this properly. My bad!) 
> 
> I think that's enough from me. Hope you enjoy!

Draco walks into the pub with a not insubstantial amount of trepidation.

In fact, he thinks it’s a perfectly healthy amount of trepidation. An absolutely  _reasonable_  amount of trepidation given that he’s stepping into a place he hasn’t been to in well over five years, to see people he’s barely spoken to over the past two.

You see, the Muggle Worthy Excuses Committee and the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad thought it would be just  _grand_  to get together on Fridays for pub nights. They’re both on level four of the Ministry and their work overlaps just often enough that everyone sort of already knows one another.

Draco never really saw the point of the get-togethers; but that didn’t really matter since he’s normally been able to beg off going. They’ve been doing pub nights for several weeks and Draco has always had an excuse not to go. And no one really ever questioned it, as everyone knew Draco liked to keep his head down—or maybe they just didn’t care whether or not he went.

Regardless, it’s never been an issue.

Until now.

Hence the trepidation.

Look, Draco likes his job at the Ministry. It pays his bills and leaves him enough for some frivolous spending now and then. It keeps him busy and keeps people from looking at him funny (most of the time, anyway). The people he works with are nice enough and polite enough; he’s exchanged, at  _most_ , fifty words with all his coworkers since he started. And he  _thought_  that suited everyone just fine. It certainly suited him.

But alas, here he is. Standing in the doorway of the Leaky Cauldron for the first time in five odd years, about to go mingle with people he hardly knows. People he honestly thought he’d never have to see again. People he doesn’t think even want to see him.

Because—and this is just Draco’s luck, isn’t it—the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad has two of the Golden Trio in its midst, and the third often tags along just because he can. Draco knew Potter and Granger worked there when he started at the Ministry, but never expected their paths to cross more than an awkward few mornings in the elevators or on the way to the floos.

He was wrong. Clearly.

“Oi!” A shout draws Draco from his thoughts, as does an elbow digging none-too-gently into his side. Draco stumbles out of the way of the door and watches the wizard who shouted bustle past him and belly up to the bar without further fuss. Draco stares for a moment, jostled, then finally turns his gaze toward his intended companions for the night.

They’re tucked into a corner of the Leaky with a simple privacy spell overlain to keep their chatter from spilling into the rest of the pub. Various groups of people are standing around or gathered around a few tables, all of them chatting and all of them within the borders of the privacy spell. Some tables are gathered together, too close for Draco’s comfort, but some tables and people are more spread out. All told, it takes up a good chunk of the Leaky, but none of the other patrons seem to mind.

Draco fidgets with the hem of his crisp, white button-up, then with the buttons of his sleeves. He resists the urge to wipe his clammy palms on his black and gray plaid trousers and instead takes stock of who he can see. He picks out a few people from his department, a handful from Accidental Magic-Reversal, and some from other departments. He sees plenty of people he doesn’t recognize, too, and as his gaze drifts over the crowd he spots exactly who he was afraid of seeing here.

Granger’s crazed dark hair and even darker skin stands out even under the low, smoky lights of the Leaky Cauldron. By her side is Weasley, pale and freckled as ever but grinning bright. Across the table are Abbott and Longbottom—neither of whom are in Draco’s department or Magic Reversal but their presence isn’t especially surprising. Old friendships die hard, he thinks, only a little bitter.

Eventually, after Draco’s gaze has flitted across the other pub-goers he’s going to have to spend time with, he sighs with relief.

There’s no sign of Potter.

Not that they wouldn’t be  _civil_. Petty school rivalries are in the past with the war and far more gruesome things. He and Potter interacted a handful of times during and after the trials against Draco and his mother, and they were always perfectly polite.

But Potter’s absence is like a soothing balm to Draco’s nerves. He steels himself and stands up a little straighter before finally making a beeline for the table. As he approaches the privacy ward, for a moment he’s worried it won’t let him through. Wouldn’t that just be a laugh? Look at poor old Malfoy trying to be  _friendly_ , watch him fall on his arse as the spell backfires.

He shakes his head minutely and forces himself to step past the iridescent, glimmering shield and holds back a second sigh of relief when the ward lets him through without issue. He looks around and ignores the chills running up and down his spine as gazes, one by one, turn to him.

Most eyes slide away from him—not in disdain, just disinterest. Draco will take disinterest over hatred any day. The eyes that don’t look away are predictable: Granger, Weasley, Longbottom, and Abbott. Draco nods politely at them, and nearly swallows his tongue when Granger grins back and beckons him over.

He starts walking. It isn’t as though he has friends around; he hasn’t got any other choice but to approach their table.

He waves as he approaches. “Hello,” he greets with another nod.

Longbottom grins the same sheepish sort of smile he had back in school, crooked teeth and all. “‘Lo, Malfoy. Glad you could make it!”

Beside him, Abbott murmurs a spell Draco doesn’t quite catch, but suddenly a seat appears just behind him and scoots closer, urging him to sit. Draco practically falls into the cushioned chair and lets it push up to the edge of the table.

“How have you been?” Granger asks immediately; Draco doesn’t miss Weasley’s eyeroll but it doesn’t feel malicious. Weasley pipes up and sets Draco’s worries to rest easily.

“Blimey, ‘Mione, let the man have a moment.” Weasley grins when Granger huffs and her cheeks pink. “You want a drink?”

It takes Draco a moment to realize Weasley is addressing him. “Er.” He looks toward the bar where Tom and another young woman are tending drinks. “I can—?”

Weasley doesn’t let him finish. “Harry should be back any minute, he can grab you a pint on his way over.”

Draco’s mouth goes dry. “Potter’s here?”

“Course he is,” Weasley says with a snort. “He’s—there he is, now.” Weasley’s head turns to a spot just left of the bar; the direction of the loos, Draco knows. “Oi!” Weasley shouts. How it breaks through the privacy ward without a separate spell, Draco doesn’t know, but Potter clearly hears him. “Grab a pint for Malfoy on your way back!”

Potter stops, hands still patting dry on his pants, and stares at Weasley blankly for a moment. Then his gaze shifts and lands on Draco. It’s a bit of a distance and it’s darker than Draco’s really used to, but if he didn’t know better he’d say Potter just  _grinned_  at him.

“Yeah, alright!” Potter hollers back before turning on his heel and approaching Tom.

Draco forces himself not to watch as Potter orders their drinks and pays. He doesn’t focus on the tight fit of Potter’s jeans or the well-worn look of Potter’s t-shirt.

Instead he turns and faces the table. All eyes are on him and he finds himself flushing under the scrutiny.

“How is everyone?” He asks, if only to take attention off him. There’s a beat of silence, then Abbott jumps into diligently answering. He only half listens as she regales him with tales of teaching charms at Hogwarts; he catches her gesturing to Longbottom and hears something about herbology, and that’s not a hard leap to make.

“And we’re getting married this summer!”

Draco nods along. “Wonderful, congratulations,” he says with a not-entirely-pained smile. “What month?”

“August, a few weeks before school begins.” Abbott leans closer to gush. “We’ll take our honeymoon and be back just in time for the start of term. McGonagall, you know her, she tried to convince us to take the time off during the year so we’d have more of a break, but we wouldn’t have it.

“Of course,” Draco agrees.

“Besides,” Longbottom chimes in, “I’ve got a few new plants to keep up with and I’m already having a hard enough time thinking about leaving them for a week without students around. Merlin knows what a wreck I’d be if I had to leave them during term.”

Draco doesn’t get a chance to politely acknowledge Longbottom’s story, because Granger jumps right in only to turn the tables.

“What about you, Draco?”

The use of his first name catches him off guard enough that he swallows a surprised cough. “Oh, well. I’m with Muggle-Worthy Excuses, obviously. It’s good.” He blinks owlishly; Granger’s earnest, eager eyes have left him more than a little dumbfounded.

“You don’t usually come along,” Granger starts. “Why now?” It’s not accusatory, simply curious.

“My mother cancelled our usual Friday evening plans, and my boss took me aside and suggested I get out more.” Draco scowls lightly. “I thought it wouldn’t hurt to attend, at least once.”

Looking delighted, Granger opens her mouth again, likely to ask more questions, but Potter takes that moment to return to the table.

“Budge up, Malfoy.” Potter murmurs good-naturedly. Abbott pulls up a chair for him with the same charm as before, and he falls into it beside Draco. Despite the size of the table, he and Potter are close enough that their knees bump if one of them shifts even a little bit. Potter slides over a glass of wine and leaves the pint of ale for himself.

“This isn’t a pint,” Draco points out lightly.

Potter snickers. “You didn’t seem like an ale sort of bloke.”

Draco’s brow furrows, but he doesn’t deny it. “And I’m meant to just trust your taste in wine?”

“You were ready to trust my taste in ale,” Potter fires back.

“It all tastes like wheat and piss, it’s not exactly refined.” From the corner of his eye, he can see their tablemates staring unabashedly at their verbal back and forth.

“And all wine tastes like paint thinner and unsweetened juice, it’s hardly rocket science.” For the first time since he sat down, Potter faces Draco. He brings his pint to his lips and grins around the lip of the mug. “Give it a try. If you really hate it, I won’t make you pay me back the galleon it cost.”

Draco scoffs. “Fine.” He grips the stem of the wine glass carefully and raises it to take a swallow. He has half a mind to stare at Potter while he does it—it isn't as though Potter has looked away yet, anyway—but decides that’s just too much. Instead, he lets his eyes slip shut as the wine tips into his mouth. It’s a small sip, meant for testing the waters and savoring the first burst of flavors.

As the notes of oak barrels and cherries settle pleasantly on his tongue, he scowls lightly. Potter erupts into a laugh.

“Drink up, Malfoy,” Potter teases. “You’ve got next round.”

 

By the end of the night, Draco is more sloshed than he’s been since sixth year and he’s never felt better. At some point the wine shifted to frothy, magical cocktails—according to Granger, a Lovegood specialty Tom had implemented by popular demand. The cocktails shifted to ale (which  _does_  taste like wheat and piss, thanks very much Potter) until finally Tom forced them all to settle on water.

Draco’s painfully aware that he’s the drunkest one there, but he also doesn’t care. Everyone is grinning and laughing and no one is sneering or mocking him under their breath. There’s no looming threat and nothing to worry about,. Draco is warm and delighted and thinks he ought to thank his mother for canceling their usual Friday night dinner.

“He’s absolutely pissed.” A voice breaks through the fog of Draco’s thoughts.

“I am,” he agrees, knowing without a doubt they’re talking about him. His words set off a round of laughter and Draco grins to himself. “I don’t drink often,” he admits.

“Clearly.” That’s Longbottom, Draco is sure. “Next time we’ll have to be a little more careful.”

“This is fun, though!” Weasley whines, and Draco aims a half-hearted kick for his shins under the table. Potter hisses beside him, and shoves at him lightly. “See? It’s a bloody riot.”

Draco opens his eyes—when had he closed them? Why are his eyelids so  _heavy_? He opens his eyes and flips Weasley two fingers.

“Don’t antagonize him,” Potter says with a chuckle. Draco watches as a tan hand lands on his wrist and brings his hand down to the tabletop again.

“Antagonize  _him_?” Draco snarks back. “He’s the one wh-who started it.” More laughter abounds, and Draco takes a deep, calming breath. “Oh, fuck, I’m far too drunk to get home.”

Weasley snickers until he’s quelled by a look from Granger.

“That’s alright,” Granger assures in a soft, lulling voice. Draco wonders, not for the first time tonight, how she or any of the people at their table can stand to even look at Draco. He doesn’t say that, though. That’s far too melancholy for this; they’re having such a good time. “Draco?”

He blinks. “Right, sorry. What?”

Weasley dissolves into quiet, wheezing laughter and Granger rolls her eyes.

“I’ve got sobering potions in my bag, if you’d like one when you’re ready to go. Or, one of us could side-along you.”

The thought of apparating makes Draco’s stomach churn, side-along or otherwise.

“Or one of us could floo with you and make sure you get home alright,” Granger amends with a kind smile.

“I’ll think on it,” Draco says, then reconsiders. “Wait, what time is it? Are we going to be kicked out soon?”

“Tom’s too kind.” Potter stage-whispers as Tom walks by. Tom shakes his head fondly as he smacks Potter upside the head with a damp rag used for cleaning tables. “Nah, we probably ought to get going.” He sounds a little regretful, and his eyes are trained on Draco intently. Draco swallows nervously.

“Hannah’s been asleep for the past half hour,” Longbottom admits. Draco looks over to see Abbott slumped over Longbottom’s shoulder, sound asleep. He envies her—not because of Longbottom, but because sleep sounds  _divine_. And Draco has always rather enjoyed going to sleep hammered; less dreams that way, he’s found.

“C’mon, up you get, Malfoy.”

Draco lets Potter pull him up and as they stand, the chairs skid back to their rightful tables. “I should take a sobering potion.” It’s a struggle to get the words out but he manages. “My floo isn’t actually open to anyone but myself.”

Potter regards him for a moment and again, there’s a flicker of disappointment in his green eyes. Draco doesn’t have time to dwell on it; soon enough an uncorked vial is being shoved into his hand and he’s knocking back the contents quick as he can. He shudders around the minty, acidic taste and closes his eyes as it starts to take effect.

In a matter of seconds, he feels less dehydrated and less dizzy. When he opens his eyes, the room spins for a moment before settling into alarmingly sharp clarity. He looks at Potter, who’s staring back.

“God, I hate those things.” Draco says slowly. It’s still hard to talk but he manages a grin. Potter mirrors the expression. Draco turns to Granger and Weasley. “Thanks, Granger,” he says, reaching out a hand that she takes and shakes politely.

“Honestly, call me Hermione.”

Much like the start of the evening, the request catches him off guard. But Draco forces himself to nod. “Right. Hermione.”

“You can still call me Weasley. Won’t be callin’ you anything but Malfoy any time soon,” Weasley says as he steps forward and shakes Draco’s hand as well.

Dazed, Draco watches without hearing as they say their goodbyes to Potter. Longbottom does the same, and Draco shakes his hand perfunctorily. Abbott is still asleep, and Longbottom hoists her into his arms with ease.

“She’s a lightweight too,” Longbottom whispers to Draco with a grin. Then they’re gone, apparating on the spot with a crack that no one cares to notice.

It’s just him and Potter, now.

“This was nice, Malfoy.” Potter says. His hands are shoved into the pockets of his muggle jeans, and Draco notices a rip across the knee. He knows that’s sort of in-fashion now; he wonders if it’s something that came on the jeans or if Potter’s clumsiness is the cause.

“It was,” he agrees after a beat. “I assume you’ll be here next Friday?”

“Barring anything keeping me late, yeah.”

Draco nods. “I suppose it’s good for… department morale.”

Potter’s lips quirk into a bright grin. “Right. Department morale.”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Till next time, Potter.” He holds out his hand, same as he did to Granger and Weasley. Potter takes his hand and shakes it slowly. They don’t break eye contact even after their hands fall to their respective sides. Draco swallows the sudden lump in his throat then jerks his head toward the floo. “I ought to get going.”

Potter waves him off before apparating with another loud crack.

A few minutes later, Draco stumbles out of the floo into his apartment. His head is still foggy and he lands on his hands and knees on the carpet in front of the fireplace. He stares at the flickering green embers until they fade to nothing and decides not to overthink the evening he’s just had. He stands up, spells away the ash clinging to his clothes, and heads to bed.

For a moment, he’s worried his head will hit the pillow and he’ll be overcome with the urge to overanalyze everything that happened tonight. He crawls into bed after changing into his pajamas, and slowly lays himself down. The minute his head touches the pillow, he’s out like a light.

 

Despite the fact Draco wakes up the next morning feeling sick and anxious and more than a little confused, he still resolves to go to the next pub night.

 

 —

 

He gets there earlier than last time with an unsettling mix of anticipation and nerves blending in his gut. It’s better than the trepidation from last time, but only just. He’s determined not to make a fool of himself this time, and decides—silently, to himself—not to have anything stronger than some ale.

He slips into the Leaky and it’s predictably busy given the time of evening and day of the week. That said, the corner tables they sat at last time are set aside and covered in the same privacy spell as before. As he approaches, Draco doesn’t see anyone immediately familiar; he nods to a few people he knows from the Ministry but doesn’t stop to sit with them.

By the time he gets to the table from last week, he’s feeling more nervous than excited. There’s no one at the table, and he feels like a berk just standing beside it. He stares at the glossy, wooden tabletop and finally perches himself on a chair. He looks around again and lets out a disgruntled sigh when he still doesn’t see Granger, or Potter, or even Longbottom.

An ale floats over to him, and Draco turns half expecting to see Potter standing a few feet away, smirking.

There’s no Potter; just Tom, behind the bar, smiling at Draco. Draco lifts the pint in thanks and sips at it slowly.

He’s lost in his thoughts when someone practically crashes the table; if his drink were any fuller, it would’ve upended all over his lap. He lifts his gaze to glare at the offending patron, only to find Weasley grinning down at him.

“Malfoy,” he greets as he slides into the seat opposite Draco. He raises his hand and before long, a second pint is floating into Weasley’s waiting hand, “‘Mione and Harry should be here soon. Something came up at the office.”

Draco nods as he sips at his drink. “And what about you? I don’t think I caught what you did, last time.”

Weasley regards him silently, pint poised at his mouth. “I work at the joke shop, with George.”

There’s an icy under current in his tone. It’s not directed at Draco specifically, but it still chills him to his core.

Ignoring the sensation, Draco asks, “and how’s the business doing?”

If Weasley is surprised by the question, he doesn’t show it. He grins, mostly to himself, before answering. “S’good. The shop in Hogsmeade is doing great too. We’ve got offers to expand to America, but me n’George haven’t decided yet.”

Draco hums. “And how do Longbottom and Abbott feel about your business? I imagine it’s not as fun for them now as it was when we were in school.” Draco bites his tongue once the words are out. It feels odd, taboo almost to bring up their school days. As if the barest mention will dredge up everything else that went with it.

Weasley only laughs. “Oh, they hate me for it, definitely. Once a month during the school year I get a howler threatening me or the shop.” He shakes his head affectionately. “It’s good to make people laugh, though. Feels good.”

It’s somber, but not so much so that it’s awkward. Draco raises his half-empty pint. “To laughter, then.”

This time, Weasley  _does_  look surprised. But he doesn’t miss a beat. Despite his wide eyes and his mouth hanging open slightly, he raises his mug and  _clinks_  it against Draco’s. “To laughter,” he echoes. “What about you, Malfoy? ‘Sides working for the Ministry.”

Draco shrugs. “I go to work, I come home. I keep my apartment clean and see my mother every Sunday, now. It used to be Fridays, but. Well.” He shrugs again, but with a smile this time. “I’m a terribly boring person.”

Weasley snorts into his pint. “I’ll let you think I believe that.”

Draco flashes him two fingers but before Weasley can retort, there’s a faint crack followed by the creak of the Leaky Cauldron’s front door swinging open. Draco and Weasley turn at the same time to see Granger and Potter, wet and out of breath, heading their way. Draco raises an eyebrow at Weasley, who only shrugs, as if to say,  _“what can you do?”_

“Sorry, sorry,” Granger rambles. She pushes her bushy hair out of her face only for it to flop back to her forehead with a wet  _slap_. “There was an issue in Robards office, but he started up a conversation with Harry before letting us in, and that took  _ages_. You know how he gets, Ron, it was a disaster.”

She huffs and draws her wand from the sleeve of her robe. Still muttering to herself, she casts a few drying charms; once her hair isn’t dripping, she pulls it back swiftly into a bun and sighs in relief. She vanishes her robe and it leaves her in nicely pressed slacks and a soft, lavender blouse. She smooths out the front before seeming satisfied. She turns to Weasley once she’s better put together and gestures for him to scoot over. While they figure out their seating, Draco stares at Potter.

“Do you enjoy dripping all over the floor?” Draco asks.

Potter grins, a little rueful. “I’m rubbish at drying charms. Hermione usually helps me out.” He turns and gestures to where Granger and Weasley are locked in a tame yet intense kiss. Draco snorts and Potter joins him. “It’ll be a minute.” He wrings at the hem of his long-sleeved shirt; the emerald green looks almost black for how wet it is.

Draco shakes his head and slides out from the seat. “Bollocks,” he says as he draws his wand. He pauses once it’s poised as a sudden thought occurs to him. “Is this alright?” He asks softly.

Potter only grins at him. “It isn’t as if I enjoy dripping all over the floor,” he parrots back.

Draco rolls his eyes and casts the same charm Granger had cast on herself, and soon enough Potter is no longer soaking wet and floor is dry too. Potter brushes imaginary wrinkles from his shirt before pinning Draco with a grin.

“Thanks.”

Draco nods and slides back into his seat. He startles when Potter follows and takes the seat beside him, and startles again when their knees bump just like the week before.

“Are they always like that?” Draco asks with a nod to the other two.

They’ve stopped kissing and Granger has gone up to the bar to grab a drink, and Weasley is staring after her longingly. It’s sickening, even as a flare of jealousy burns in Draco’s chest. Not that he’s attracted to either of them—just attracted to what they have.

“Their anniversary is coming up,” Potter murmurs back so Weasley won’t hear. “It’s been steadily getting worse.”

Draco shudders and Potter laughs. Granger returns to the table then and slides into the seat beside her husband.

“So, Draco, how was your week?” She asks.

“Oh, it was fine.” Draco shrugs. “Nothing of note. I was just telling Weasley, my life is spectacularly dull.”

Granger nods along but doesn’t look convinced. “No love life?”

Potter chokes on his sip of ale and Draco raises an unimpressed eyebrow.

“Er, no.” Draco answers even as Potter struggles to clear his throat. He opens his mouth to continue, then thinks better of it. “Potter tells me your anniversary is coming up. How many years will that be?”

Granger flushes prettily and grins at Weasley. “We’ll have been married five years, together seven. We’re thinking of renewing our vows.”

“Lovely,” Draco says, thinking back to Abbott and Longbottom last week. “What about you, Potter? How was your week?”

Potter looks a little surprised by the sudden shift but takes it in stride. “Most exciting thing this week was Robard’s office disaster. Oh, and Lily bit me.”

Draco coughs awkwardly. “What?”

“My snake,” Potter retorts with a smarmy grin. “Her name is Lily, and she bites me all the bloody time.”

“Prat,” Draco hisses as Granger and Weasley laugh. “You named a snake after your mum?”

Potter shrugs. “Got a fish named after my dad, too.”

Draco snorts inelegantly and hides his face in his hand. “Oh my god, Potter.”

 

Over the course of the night, a few of their coworkers and various other people the Golden Trio knows stop by their table. Draco stays on the edges of those conversations, tense even though eyes hardly land on him and he not-quite hides behind Potter’s form. Draco doesn’t get nearly as drunk as the week prior, and he’s glad for it.

Things aren’t as blurry and his words aren’t as slurred but it’s still a fun night, filled with just as much laughter as before. Abbott and Longbottom end up not showing, which launches Granger into an explanation that something came up with Longbottom’s plants and they couldn’t get away.

As the night winds down, Draco finds him deliberately pressing his knee against Potter’s. He wouldn’t do it, except every time their knees brush, Potter’s lips quirk and Draco finds himself fast addicted to the expression.

And if he catches Granger throwing knowing looks his way, Draco is happy to ignore them.

By the time Tom is calling for an early last call, Weasley looks dead on his feet.

“We should go,” Granger admits. “It was great to see you again, Draco. Same time next week?”

Draco nods. “Of course, Hermione.”

She grins delightedly at the use of her name, then hauls Weasley out of his chair and they’re off with a crack. Draco makes no move to leave, and neither does Potter.

“Shame you didn’t get as pissed tonight, that was hilarious.”

“Oh,  _ha ha_ ,” Draco bites back derisively. “Just you wait. One of these nights  _you’ll_  get smashed, and  _I’ll_  be the one laughing.”

To his surprise, Potter nods. “It’ll happen,” he agrees. “I’m glad you’re coming to these things, now.”

Draco’s mouth drops open slightly. “You are?”

Potter’s cheeks pink again and it’s almost as enticing as the quirk of his lips. “I never knew how to approach you once the trials were over and done with. And you didn’t come back to Hogwarts Even after you started at the Ministry...” Potter trails off.

“I honestly thought you wouldn’t want to see me, all things considered.” Draco admits in a rush. “Had I known… Well, I can’t guarantee things would’ve been different. But maybe.”

“Never too late to get started, right?”

“Right.” Draco downs the last few sips of his most recent pint. “I should go as well, I’m sure Lily and James must be waiting for you.” He smirks at Potter.

“ _Prongs_  is probably asleep, but Lily is absolutely waiting to gnaw on my hand. Or leg. Or face.” He runs a hand along his jaw and Draco wonders for a brief, crazy moment if there are little scars littering Potter’s skin. “You alright to get home?”

Draco stands and doesn’t sway. “I’ll be fine. You?”

Potter stands just as easily and shoots him a thumbs-up. “Next week?”

“Next week,” Draco replies.

 

 —

Draco walks in just as Potter’s leaving, the next week.

“Oh,” Potter grunts. “You’re here.”

Draco’s painfully aware of the flush on his own face. He’d run here from Gringotts, too frazzled to even think of apparating. His hair is probably a mess and his throat is dry. “Something came up with my finances, I had to go deal with Gringotts and it took so bloody long, I thought I was going to die in there.”

Potter rolls his eyes. “Dramatic.”

Draco scoffs. “It was very dire.” It was, but he doesn’t need to elaborate on that. “Were you leaving?”

“Oh, er, yeah.” Potter looks over his shoulder into the Leaky. “Ron n’Mione had to leave early to help Molly with something, and…”

“I’m game for a drink.” Draco peers over Potter’s shoulder now too. “We could go somewhere else, if you like.”

“Sounds good,” Potter replies immediately. He steps forward and Draco steps back, and the door to the pub falls shut behind them. “Any particular place you’d prefer?”

“We’ve already established my life is horrendously dull. Do you think that means I’ve got a favorite pub in mind?”

Potter shoves at him jokingly. “I know a place. Okay with apparating?” He holds out an elbow, and Draco wraps his arms around it. “Won’t be much, it’s a quick jump.”

“Alright.”

 

It  _is_  a quick jump. Draco stumbles a bit as they land, and Potter grips his shoulder to steady him. Draco looks up to see a nondescript door beneath a rickety sign. There’s no name on the sign, and Draco turns to Potter, confused.

“Scared?” Potter asks with a wink.

Draco breaks from his grip with snort. “You wish,” he snipes back before turning to the door. He pushes on the scuffed wood and the door gives under his hand, revealing an amber-lit and sparsely-populated pub. It is nice, though. There’s a soft undercurrent of music and the bartender looks up as they enter, flashes them a grin.

“‘Wotcher, Harry!” He hollers and gestures them in.

Draco hurries in with Potter close at his heels. He lets Potter steer him up to the bar and they clamber onto the stools together. Potter taps the bar and the bartender nods at them before turning to the wall of liquors and taps. It’s an odd mixture of muggle and wizarding things, paraphernalia and antiques lined up on shelves on the wall; there are signed pictures of people like Celestina Warbeck as well as Elvis Presley.  

Draco feels overdressed in the casual atmosphere, especially beside Potter who’s in jeans once more and another t-shirt, with a hoodie thrown over. Draco runs a hand over the front of his button-down and resolves to wear something more casual, next time they go out.

“How’d you find this place?” Draco asks. “It’s rather secluded.”

“It’s got a disillusion ward around it, too.”

Draco ‘oh’s softly in surprise. “No muggles, then?”

Potter shakes his head. “Not unless they’ve got a wizard with them. Mackie doesn’t mind family and the like, though.”

“Mackie at your service,” the bartender greets suddenly, as though summoned by Potter’s words. He sets a large, long-stemmed wine glass in front of Draco and a firewhiskey on the rocks in front of Potter. “Good to meet you.” He holds out his hand and Draco takes it to shake, a bit timid.

“Draco,” he responds. “Thank you,” he adds with a nod to the drink.

“One of the finest wines we got, think you’ll like it.” Mackie winks at him before turning away.

“He’s a legilimens,” Potter explains. “He likes to get a read on people when they come in, and I thought you’d enjoy wine over mead.”

Draco’s surprised, but gratified for his skills in occlumency; the less people in his head, the better. Draco raises his cup and tilts it in a mock-toast. “You thought right, Potter.” He takes a healthy sip of the wine and hums.

Potter watches him with a grin. “What happened at Gringotts?”

Draco sighs into his glass, then takes another, longer, less-leisurely sip just for the sake of alcohol. “Someone tried to break into my vault and the goblins were less than helpful with resolving the matter. In the end I just told them to sod off and forget it.”

Potter stares back at him. “You told the goblins to sod off?”

“I’m moving my finances to a bank in France once the weekend is over.” He shakes his head. “Not my finest moment, but it was a  _week_.”

Potter leans one elbow on the countertop. “Want to talk about it?”

Draco doesn’t, not really. But it isn’t as though he’s got anyone else to talk about it with. Well, maybe Granger, if he asked. She’d probably be all too happy to listen. But he doesn’t think he’d ever be able to do that.

“Mother won’t be coming for lunch this week, which isn’t precisely a problem, but I feel as though she’s hiding something from me. Which never ends well. That’s going to blow up in my face, surely. Then the bank matter, which by the way, the break in was attempted on  _Tuesday_  and they didn’t inform me until this morning—that on top of the thing with mother is just tiresome.”

Draco takes another sip then meets Potter’s gaze. There’s no boredom or regret in Potter’s features, just quiet interest.

“Tackety on level five also shipped our paperwork to the wrong MACUSA office in the states, and I’ve been assigned to fix it, and I’m trying to figure out how to flee the country.” Draco adds, then swallows awkwardly. “Enough about me, Potter. What about  _you_?”

Potter laughs at the accusatory tone. “Same shit, different day, mostly. Lily bit me again.” He holds out his right hand and sure enough, there are two faint, silvery-pink marks at the crux of his thumb and wrist. “She’s a bit dim.”

“Clearly. You look nothing like a field mouse.”

Potter chuckles. “Guess not.”

 

Not for the first time that evening, Draco catches Potter’s gaze lingering on him. He doesn’t mind one bit. If he tilts his head back a little farther than necessary, swallows more slowly, and angles his body deliberately toward Potter, well—

Potter certainly isn’t complaining.

Yet, by the time Mackie is closing the pub, neither Draco or Potter has broached the subject of the mounting tension between them. Even as they stand outside the pub in the light misting rain, they simply stand toe-to-toe and stare at one another.

“This was nice,” Draco finally blurts. “It’s nice to get away from the Leaky now and then.”

Potter nods in agreement. “We could try someplace else next week.”

“I’d like that.”

“Er,” Potter falters. “Just us? Or—?”

“The others can come,” Draco hurries to answer, even though he enjoyed tonight the most out of their Fridays together. He knows it’s because it was only him and Potter, no one else. But Draco does like Granger and even Weasley’s company; he’s not exactly opposed to them being around. “Maybe just the four of us? Abbott and Longbottom could come too, if they’re available.”

“Right, sounds good. I’ll ask around for where everyone wants to go, and send you the address? I can send it in a memo.”

Draco reaches out and grabs Potter’s wrist before he can think better of it. He pushes back the sleeve of Potter’s loose zip-up jacket and presses his wand to the skin. With a quickly murmured spell, words appear in silvery ink across Potter’s arm.

“My address. Feel free to just owl me. Memos at the Ministry never seem to make it to me.” Draco lets Potter’s arms drop. “Just tap your wand to it and murmur  _delens_ and the ink will vanish.”

Potter tugs down his sleeve. “Alright.” He flashes a sideways smile at Draco, at once bashful and enticing. “Have a good night.”

“You too,” Draco says, and then they’re both stepping back and watching the other apparate.

Draco lands at the foot of his own bed and barely manages to shrug out of his scarf and jacket before he falls forward onto the covers. He groans into the lucious comforter and crawls up just enough to bury his face into the plush pillow at the head of the bed. He breathes deep for a moment, willing himself to calm down; it doesn’t take him long to realize it’s a fruitless effort.

He’d  _really_  like to shag Potter, and he’s almost certain Potter might want to shag him.

He’s so royally fucked.

 

  **—**

 

The owl comes that following Wednesday, just as Draco steps out of the floo. There’s a soft but insistent tapping coming from the kitchen window, and despite feeling bone-tired after the day he’s had at work, he hurries over to let the owl in.

It’s a gorgeous, chestnut colored thing. She hoots softly and presents her leg obediently. Draco takes the message and digs some owl treats from a kitchen drawer. The owl picks them carefully from his hand, not a nip to his skin, before taking off again without waiting for a response.

Draco unfurls the small piece of parchment.

_Tawney’s Tavern, over in St Albans. If you have trouble finding it, just floo me._

Beneath that, two addresses. One is clearly the pub, and the other must be Potter’s home address.

Draco spells the parchment to the front of his fridge and stares at it. Something tells him continuing this song-and-dance is probably a bad idea.

Not like that’s ever really stopped him, though.

 

“So, Malfoy,” Weasley drawls; they’re all two or three drinks deep by now, and Draco’s knee is once again bumping companionably against Potter’s under the table. “You got any other friends?”

Granger hisses an embarrassed,  _“Ronald!”_  and Potter pins his friend with a less-than-kind glare. Draco pauses, drink halfway to his mouth, before answering.

“No,” he answers, simple and slow. “I haven’t talked to any of our classmates in years, aside from working in the Ministry. Pansy fucked off to eastern Europe and never wrote me back, and I think Blaise might be in Brazil, now, but I’m not entirely sure.”

Draco shrugs. “They never were the best company,” he adds with a grin.

The tension snaps in that moment, and Weasley laughs. “Never thought I’d hear the day Draco bloody Malfoy say he prefers Gryffindors over his precious Slytherins.”

“Don’t go putting words in my mouth,” Draco teases with a put-upon scowl. “You lot can simply hold your liquor better than the others.”

That has Weasley outright guffawing and Granger hurrying to shush him amidst her own laughs. When it’s clear they aren’t going to quiet down anytime soon, Potter leans over to whisper at Draco again. He does that an awful lot, Draco’s noticed. Just like how their knees bump all the time, or how Potter always seems to stare at Draco like he’s a puzzle to solve.

“Sorry about Ron.”

Draco waves off the apology. “I’ve been waiting for it. Besides, you’ve all been far more welcoming than I would’ve ever guessed. What’s a crass, poorly timed question or two?”

Potter still looks uneasy and Draco reaches out unthinkingly. He lays his hand over Potter’s arm and squeezes for just a moment.

“Really, Potter, it’s fine. No harm done.”

Potter finally seems appeased. “You know, you could call me Harry.”

Draco bites his tongue. “Right.”

“I could call you Draco.”

“I don’t remember giving you any such permission.”

“You let Hermione do it.”

Draco’s gaze flits to Granger. She and Weasley have finally quieted down, and she’s watching him and Potter from the corner of her eye. She thinks she’s being sneaky—or maybe she doesn’t, Draco thinks. Maybe she  _wants_  Draco to know she’s watching.

“That’s different,” Draco says a little too loudly. Weasley looks over then, intrigued. “She actually frightens me.” Draco nods at Granger as he speaks and makes sure a smile is in place as he says it, to soften the blow. “You’re no more terrifying than a pigmy puff, Potter.”

Weasley snorts. “Try saying that five times fast.”

Draco and Granger roll their eyes in unison. Potter sits back in his seat and smirks.

“Who says I need your permission?” Potter asks, prompting Weasley to mutter,  _“permission for what?”_

“I—?”

“No, I don’t think I need your permission.” Potter leans forward suddenly, invading the bubble of Draco’s personal space swiftly without being too obtrusive. To anyone outside their table, it would probably just look like friends sitting closer to hear each other over the din of the bar. Granger’s knowing stare tells Draco it looks  _far_  different up close.

Potter continues in a voice an octave lower. “Huh, Draco?”

A chill runs down Draco’s spine. As he opens his mouth to answer—though he has absolutely no idea what to say—Longbottom and Abbott take that moment to bustle up to their table.

“Sorry we’re late.” Longbottom’s cheeks are healthily flushed and Abbott’s curly hair is an almost artful disaster. It doesn’t take much to guess  _why_  they were late, and it certainly wasn’t anything to do with plants. Longbottom’s tie is askew, and Abbott’s cardigan is buttoned unevenly. They paint quite a hilarious picture, Draco admits.

“No problem,” Granger assures. She draws two chairs to the table with a spell and Longbottom and Abbott sit. “Harry was just trying to get permission to call Draco, well. Draco.” She giggles.

“Hermione,” Potter whines, and Draco finds him agreeing silently. His cheeks are still flushed from Potter’s actions. Potter and Granger share a long, silent look before Granger sits back and raises her hands in surrender.

Longbottom and Abbott stare for a moment before Abbott, still pink in the face and attempting to pat down her hair into something less crazed, dives into a story about something that happened at their greenhouse today. It’s not a terribly interesting story—aside from the tentacula that got awfully handsy, Draco’s always found that sort of thing amusing—but it turns attention away from Potter and himself adequately.

Potter leans in again, but before he can undoubtedly apologize once more, Draco just presses their knees together.

 

 —

 

Draco is man enough to admit he’s not entirely sure how he ended up here.

Not the bar, no; he remembers floo’ing over after work, not even bothering to stop by his flat to change clothes. His gray V-neck tee had been the perfect blend of casual and dressy, and he felt good walking into the pub. It’s a new bar Weasley picked out but it’s easy enough to find even in the bustling, evening Westminster crowd.

It’s not even the loo. It’s not exactly difficult to remember the twenty feet from the table to the men’s restroom, even if the decor in the pub is exceedingly bland. Even if Draco is more than a little tipsy and the world had twisted and turned as he stumbled to the bathroom.

No, what Draco isn’t entirely sure about is how he ended up  _snogging_   _Potter_  in a bathroom stall. Sure, there’s been the heavy, lingering looks they’ve been sharing. And, there’s the whole knee-thing, which Draco has resolutely avoided thinking about. There’s been Granger’s knowing looks and Weasley’s half-disgruntled, half-content grins.

But despite all that, Draco is still dumbfounded as Potter’s tongue slips into his mouth and the toilet paper holder digs into the small of his back. He’s not complaining, though. Not even close.

He knots his hands in Potter’s already unruly hair and tugs. He swallows the resulting moan and keens in response, which has Potter’s hands flexing on his hips—and god, how did he work his way under Draco’s top? When did that happen?

Draco pulls back to ask just that but the moment their lips disconnect, Potter seals his mouth to Draco’s neck and goes to town. Draco’s question comes out as another moan that reverberates off the bathroom walls.

“Were you gonna say something?” Potter mumbles against the column of Draco’s throat.

Draco tugs at Potter’s hair again in retaliation. “Shut up.”

Potter hums and works his way back up. He peppers kisses and tiny, stinging lovebites along the way; he sucks a vicious hickey into the hinge of Draco’s jaw before finally kissing him again. It’s softer and sweeter but no less thrilling.

Potter pulls back and takes a deep breath.

“Draco—?”

The main door to the bathroom slams open and Draco freezes where he stands. He clings to Potter and Potter clings to him and they both wait. In the moment of silence, Draco realizes there’s a song filtering mutedly over the speakers. He hadn’t heard it before over the blood rushing in his ears. They’re in a muggle bar this time, so it’s not any song Draco knows, but it’s immediately, painfully catchy. Even when it’s broken up by their intruder.

“Know you’re in here,” Weasley slurs. “Glad for you.” He stumbles up to a urinal and takes a quick leak. “Sorry to interrupt,” he says, following it with a laugh. He washes his hands and talks over the running water. “Me n’Mione are gonna get outta here. Neville and Hannah already left the minute you two wandered in here together. Just, y’know. So you know.”

Then he’s gone, and Draco is slowly extricating himself from Potter’s embrace. As the bathroom door swings shut, the song continues playing overhead, and it blurs with the panicked buzzing filling up Draco’s head.

_Monday, you can fall apart. Tuesday, Wednesday, break my heart._

“Draco—!” Potter starts again; his voice seems incredibly loud over the static of the song.

“I should go,” Draco replies. He finally works his way out of Potter’s strong grasp and manages to get out of the stall before the other man can grab him again. He doesn’t bother getting further than that before he’s apparating back to his apartment.

When he lands unsteadily in his living room, he’s immediately filled with regret.

 

 —

 

Much like the first night, Draco walks into the pub with a heavy dose of uncertainty. He sticks close to the walls as he makes his way toward the back where he knows Granger has saved them a table for six. They aren’t really work outings anymore; in reality, they left behind that excuse ages ago. Now it’s always the Golden Trio and Draco, usually with Longbottom and Abbott tagging along as often as they can.

Draco swallows his nerves as he approaches and realizes he’s the last to arrive. Even better, they’ve snagged a booth this time, and the only open space is on Potter’s left. Draco half-considers grabbing an empty chair from the nearby table but forces himself to sit in the open seat without fanfare.

“Draco!” Granger exclaims, which is typical of her. He flashes her a grin and ignores the distinctly venomous look Weasley is aiming his way.

“Hermione,” he greets in return. “Sorry I’m late.” There’s no excuse—or at least, not one he can actually give. The truth of it is he spent twenty extra minutes fretting around his apartment trying to decide if he wanted to come at all. In the end, he’d changed his outfit three times before returning to the high waters and jumper he’d worn to work that day, and apparated outside the bar before he could talk himself out of it.

“Not a problem. Harry got you a drink.”

Clearly queued, Potter slides over a glass of wine. It’s a pale pink and has a sweet, smoky scent rolling off it. Draco raises an eyebrow, interest piqued.

“Veela wine, aged in charmed barrels left in hot springs,” Potter answers the unasked question. “Thought it seemed interesting.”

Draco nods. “Always fun to try new things, right?” Without waiting for any sort of response, he takes a sip and mulls the taste around his mouth. It’s not especially strong, but Draco has learned that’s the difference between wizard and muggle drinks. He’s had some downright dreadful muggle wines, but wizarding wines don’t always have a strong taste even when they have high alcohol content.

With that in mind, he takes another cautious sip. “It’s good,” he announces, and realizes the smoky flavor grows stronger once he inhales after drinking. “Odd.”

Potter looks faintly pleased. “Yeah?”

Draco looks back and curses the blush rushing to his cheeks. All he can think about is the previous weekend, and what an absolute mess it was—a  _delicious_  mess, but a mess all the same. He forces a smile. “Yes.”

 

The veela wine  _is_  strong. Draco realizes this part way through his third glass. He’s leaning on Potter far more than he ever meant to; it’s more than just their knees bumping. He’s practically slumped against Potter’s side. Even worse, Draco’s tongue is just this side of loose enough that he’s using everyone’s  _given names_.

The first time “Neville” tumbled out of his mouth, the whole table fell into dead silence.

By now, it’s less shocking, but no less mortifying in the back of Draco’s mind.

“You know,” Weasley drawls from beside Granger. “He still hasn’t called Harry by his name, yet.”

“I have,” Draco insists, chasing his words with another heavy sip. Gone is the time for savoring the subtle flavors. He feels a little bad to make a mockery of a fine drink, and even worse knowing it’s likely expensive and on Potter’s dime no less. But he’s just drunk enough to not put a stop to it.

“No, you haven’t.” Weasley points at him accusingly, and Draco scoffs.

“You haven’t,” Potter chimes in. His voice is the same deeper octave as it was a few weeks ago and a thrill rushes through Draco. Potter’s mouth is tantalizingly close and his eyes, bright and green, are so eager.

“Sorry, Harry,” Draco murmurs. He hiccups, then slaps a hand over his mouth. “Merlin’s beard, why do you lot let me keep drinking?” That said, he knocks back the rest of the wine before someone can take it from him. As he works on swallowing the large gulp, Potter plucks the wine glass from his hand and sends it back to the bar with a wordless charm.

Weasley is shaking his head and grinning at Granger, and Longbottom and Abbott look distinctly uncomfortable and amused in tandem.

Potter is still watching Draco.

Once his mouth is free and his tongue is smoking, Draco clears his throat. “I swear, next week, I won’t be drinking anything but water.” His words are slurred but his vision isn’t too blurry. He’s at a good place between sloshed and sober, and he’s content to keep leaning against Potter.

Potter snorts. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

“You will see it,” Draco snarks back confidently. “Next week. Next Friday.” He sits up a little straighter and looks around. “Get me another glass, Potter, I’m not done yet.”

“Oh, no, no.” Potter shakes his head and pats Draco’s thigh. “I think you’ve had plenty.”

Draco’s skin burns beneath the fabric of his trousers. His gaze darts to the rest of the table where the other two couples are engaged in some sort of conversation—about weddings, he thinks, and their ceremonies.

“I’m sorry about last week.” It’s a struggle to keep his voice low enough for only Potter to hear, but Draco thinks he manages quite well.

Potter looks surprised by the admission. “Sorry?” He asks.

“It was… Unprofessional.”

That has Potter chuckling. “We’re friends, Mal—Draco. You’re not being held to some sort of standard.”

Draco’s cheeks darken, and he scowls. “I know that. I just mean—friends don’t. Do  _that_.” He admits it soft and breathless, and Potter leans in closer to hear. “I’m enjoying these nights, and regardless of how much I’d like to shag you,” and  _god_ , Draco did  _not_  mean to say that, “I don’t want to muck it all up for a quick fuck.”

There’s silence after his admission, and Draco looks up cautiously. Potter stares at him with hooded eyes and pupils dilated.

“C’mon.” Potter shoves at him to get out of the booth. “We’re going,” he says, half to Draco and half to their friends.

Longbottom lets out a dramatic sigh of relief. “Oh, finally.” He raises his pint in a toast and finishes it off. “I’ll drink to that.”

Weasley wrinkles his nose a bit but nods at Potter. “Go on, get out of here, for all our sakes.” There’s the slightest quirk at the corner of his lips that feels like permission, a blessing, like Draco won’t get his bollocks hexed off for snogging Potter.

Draco lets Potter push him out of the booth and out of the pub. The early spring air hits them with surprising force and chill, and Draco shivers. His stomach is warm and content, but his skin erupts in goosebumps as wind whips by them.

“Draco.” Potter’s voice is even but thick with everything that’s been building between them.

He faces Potter, still uncertain.

“Your place or mine?”

 

They end up at Potter’s.

Draco stumbles as they land in Potter’s living room after apparating, but Potter catches him around the waist to keep him steady. Draco blinks owlishly up at Potter as they pose in an almost graceful dip; Potter smirks back down at him before standing up straight and pulling Draco close to his chest.

Draco’s gaze drops to Potter’s lips. They haven’t kissed yet tonight, and Draco could swear his entire body is tingling with anticipation. He wants it, no matter how irresponsible he thinks it might be. He locks his grip into Potter’s shirt and yanks him the few scant inches needed to connect their mouths. Immediately, Draco whines into the kiss and drinks in Potter’s answering moan.

Draco doesn’t know how long they stand there in the living room, snogging. Their lips fit together perfectly and they breathe each other in like it’s something they’ve always done. There’s no awkward maneuvering or bumping of noses. Draco’s hands run over Potter’s chest, his shoulders, his hips. Potter’s hands in turn trail their way across Draco’s arms and back and end up settling on the top curve of Draco’s arse.

“Awful handsy, Potter,” Draco chides.

In response, Potter’s hands slide lower and cup his arse to haul him up. Draco flails for a moment before locking around Potter. His arms wrap around Potter’s shoulders and his legs around Potter’s hips and the heat of their bodies pressed together sends shivers down Draco’s spine.

“You berk,” Draco hisses, swaying as they start to move. Potter just laughs at him as he carries Draco like it’s nothing. “Not very gentlemanly of you.”

“I never claimed to be a gentleman,” Potter points out as they turn down a hall. “You’ve always told me I lack proper manners.”

Draco can’t think of any sort of retort, so he kisses Potter again instead. He’s gratified that his kiss is distracting enough they have to stop on the way to the bedroom. Potter pushes him back against a wall for balance but never once takes his hands off Draco’s arse. He kneads the skin over the fabric and ruts between Draco’s thighs; on every other thrust Draco can feel the hint of Potter’s cock against his own.

“Potter, c’mon,” he murmurs as he pulls back from the kiss. His hands glide and knot in Potter’s hair. He tugs on the long, black locks until Potter is gazing at him desperately. “Bedroom.”

Potter nods and says, breathless, “Bedroom.” He doesn’t set Draco down, which would be quicker and easier. Instead he holds Draco tighter and closer and simply walks faster, as if he can outwalk the mounting lust. They make it in and barely make it over the threshold of the bedroom door before they’re tearing at each other’s clothes.

Potter walks Draco backwards until his knees hit the edge of the bed, but he doesn’t go down yet. Potter’s hands move with single-minded determination, and Draco shivers.

Potter makes quick work of Draco’s plum jumper and helps him to shrug the soft material off. Next comes Potter’s own t-shirt and then their belts. Before Draco can even move, Potter’s hands fall to his trousers; Potter wastes no time dragging them down Draco’s legs and with each inch exposed, Potter crouches and softly, sensually kisses Draco’s skin.

“You’re taking too long,” Draco complains, though it’s undercut by his breathlessness. Potter smirks up at him before standing and taking a step back. He drags off his own jeans and step out of them once they pool at his feet. Draco opens his mouth to say something else snarky but before he can, Potter pushes at his chest.

Draco falls back with a hushed gasp as Potter looms over him.

“Anything else to say?” Potter asks.

Draco squirms underneath him, writhing until he can plant his head on the pillow at the top of the bed. Potter climbs onto the bed and follows, crawling on all fours until he’s braced above Draco and smirking down at him.

Draco feels caged in, heart hammering in his chest, and he’s harder than he’s ever been.

Instead of answering, Draco reaches up and tugs Potter in for another kiss. Slowly, their bodies slot together. They’ve still got their pants on and it feels a little juvenile, a little silly, but it’s almost hotter. The slightest separation keeping them from really  _feeling_  each other is tantalizing, and Draco wants his pants gone as much as he wants to simply grind against Potter’s erect cock.

“What do you want?” Potter whispers against his lips. He’s got one hand inching toward the waistband of Draco’s underwear.

“Anything,” Draco replies without thinking. He reaches between them and shoves at Potter’s boxers ungracefully. “Just, get naked already, bloody hell.”

Potter laughs and they scramble to get out of their pants. It takes some maneuvering, and it strikes Draco how inelegant it is, how ridiculous it is. Compared to the easy, effortless way they kissed earlier, it’s kind of nice to fumble and laugh with another person. He finds he doesn’t mind it; it’s lighter, easier, less stressful than other times Draco has fooled around with other people. It’s not what Draco expected, but he finds himself relaxing and melting into Potter’s bed all the same.

Potter looms over him again and seems to scrutinize Draco’s body. His eyes are so dilated there’s barely a ring of green around the black, and Draco’s head spins. Potter leans down and skirts kisses across Draco’s lips, his jaw, his shoulder.

“I want to taste you,” Potter mutters against his shoulder. He sucks a quick lovebite into Draco’s pale skin then starts working his way down the length of Draco’s body. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Draco nods as he gasps. He tangles one hand in the sheets and the other in Potter’s hair again to guide him. Not that Potter needs much guidance. He seems to find Draco’s hotspots with unerring, freakish accuracy. He skims his teeth over the jut of Draco’s rib and grins at the resulting shiver. He nibbles at the slight excess skin around Draco’s waist and wrings a keen from Draco’s throat. Potter seamlessly drifts to the hollow of Draco’s right hip and places a loud, smacking wet kiss to the divot, and Draco squirms.

Draco can feel Potter’s smirk against his skin and it burns; he wants to feel  _more_. Finally, after what feels like an agonizing several minutes, Potter’s mouth turns and drifts over Draco’s cock. It’s a soft and gentle movement, teasing more than anything, and Draco lets out an involuntary whine.

Potter grins up at him again, framed by Draco’s thighs, before he finally takes the head of Draco’s prick into his mouth. He suckles at the tip and lavishes his tongue over the slit and never once breaks eye contact with Draco as he goes. The hand Draco has in Potter’s hair tightens desperately, a silent plea for more.

And Potter obliges. He slides further down and swallows around Draco’s length. He hums softly and Draco’s hips buck at the sensation. He can feel the way Potter chokes around him for a second before settling into a rhythm. The mop of black hair drops and Draco gasps again. As Potter draws back up he hums again and Draco has to restrain himself from bucking once more.

Draco forces himself to watch as Potter goes down on him like there’s nothing else he wants to do in the world. It’s a heady feeling, dizzying to have the Boy Who Lived between his thighs and sucking his cock like he  _needs_  it.

“Potter—Potter—Potter, come up here,” he urges with insistent tugging at Potter’s unruly hair. “I’m going to come.”

Potter pulls off with a pop and licks his lips. “That’s a bad thing, how?”

Draco rolls his eyes but can’t help his grin. He tugs at Potter’s hair once more and shivers when Potter obeys and crawls back up the bed. He lets Potter kiss him and chases the bitter taste of precome off Potter’s tongue. When they pull apart there’s a thin line of spit connecting their lips.

“I want you to fuck me.” Draco finally unknots his hand from Potter’s hair and takes him by the shoulders instead. “Can you do that?” He taunts.

Potter scoffs. “Can you  _take_  it?” He asks, and Draco takes the bait and drops his gaze to Potter’s straining dick. He’s thick and average length, cut and Draco’s mouth is watering. Potter seems to take Draco’s crass panting for an answer, and there’s a soft sound of magic followed by a dull thud.

Draco looks up to see a bottle of slick in Potter’s hand. “There’s spells for that,” Draco points out even as he spreads his legs wider.

Potter shrugs. “I like to do things the old-fashioned way.” He uncaps the lube with his thumb and sits back. Draco immediately misses the warmth of their bodies being so close together, but it’s worth it to watch Potter slick up three fingers.

Draco learns quickly that Potter wasn’t kidding: he  _does_  like to do things the old-fashioned way. He slips only a single finger into Draco at first. He moves slow and sure until his finger is entirely inside Draco, hot and thick. Even when Draco knees him in the side, Potter doesn’t pick up the pace or add another finger.

All the while, he peppers kisses across Draco’s shoulders and collarbone. He moves up Draco’s neck to his cheeks, his jaw, and finally his lips. Draco feels overwhelmed, and a little guilty for simply surrendering to the onslaught of Potter’s affections. Despite being distracted by Potter’s single finger working him open diligently, Draco reaches between their bodies and circles his hand around Potter’s prick.

“You ready for another?” Potter asks before nipping at Draco’s earlobe.

Draco squeezes the base of Potter’s cock and relishes his sharp inhale. “Been waiting on you,” he answers loftily.

Potter smiles at him in a bright, unabashed way. It’s not even an especially sexy expression: just sort of dopey and sweet and Draco feels short of breath suddenly. Potter swoops in and kisses him as he slides in with two fingers this time. It’s thicker and hotter and Draco arches his back. It’s hard to concentrate on stroking Potter off while fighting the pleasure licking its way up his spine but Draco tries. His hand falters each time Potter pushes in again, each time Potter crooks his fingers.

Potter slips in a third finger without asking and Draco moans in surprise. He lets go of Potter’s cock and his hand snaps to Potter’s hip instead; his nails dig into the skin as he tries to ground himself amidst the pleasure.  

“Oh, fuck, Harry,  _Harry_.”

“Draco,” Potter groans back as he pulls his fingers free. There’s a whisper of magic and Draco can feel the tingle of a protection charm; it’s like a chill at the base of his spine and he squirms at the sensation. It’s not something he’s ever gotten used to, wonders if he ever will. “Can I?”

Draco nods. He throws his arms around Potter’s shoulders and tugs him close. “Do it.”

One of Potter’s hands pushes at Draco’s thighs to spread him wider, and Draco knows without looking that Potter’s other hand is guiding his dick into Draco. They’re both silent for the moment aside from Draco’s sudden inhale as the head of Potter’s cock breaches him. Draco’s head drops back, and he rakes his nails across Potter’s back as he’s spread open.

It burns and stretches but it’s so undeniably good Draco is panting with each and every inch sinking inside him.

“Draco—?”

“Don’t you dare fucking stop, Potter, or I swear I’ll hex your bollocks off.” Draco cracks open eye to glare at his lover and doesn’t even mind the amused grin he gets in response. Potter’s hips push a little harder and Draco loses his breath again. Both eyes flutter shut again, and he concentrates on breathing through the stretch.

Faintly, he’s aware of Potter whispering things to him. They’re soft and sultry and Draco can’t quite make out the specific words, but the rhythmic hum is soothing. Potter bottoms out and Draco opens his eyes slowly. Potter stares down at Draco intently, and doesn’t start to thrust until Draco gives him a minute nod.

Potter starts off slow like he did with prepping Draco, but it doesn’t bother him. It’s been a while and Potter’s cock is a lot to take, not that he’d ever admit it aloud. The thrusts are leisurely and steady until Draco adjusts and starts to roll his hips as well.

Potter falls forward and braces his elbows on the bed on either side of Draco’s head.

“Draco,” he hisses again before sneaking a quick, filthy kiss.

“Fuck me, Harry,” Draco growls. His nails scrape down Potter’s back again to urge him on. It works, and Potter pushes faster and harder. Faintly, Draco can hear the headboard slamming against the wall in time. It’s lewd and crude and Draco’s face burns from the thought of it, and he can admit he’s never been this turned on with someone else, ever.

Potter is dropping sloppy kisses all along his cheek and neck and Draco shudders in response. It’s like his senses are dialed up to eleven and every brush of Potter’s lips is an electric shock to his skin. Every thrust is a lightning bolt down his spine, and his cock is so stiff is hurts.

“Draco,” Potter says, less lurid and more questioning.

“I’m fine.” Draco manages to gasp out. “So—so much better than fine,” he amends.

“Yeah?” Potter sounds an oddly endearing mix of smug and genuinely pleased. “Tell me what you need, Draco.”

The words are out before he can think to stop them. “You, Harry, just,” his breathing hitches as Potter’s cock grazes over his prostate. “Just you.”

 

Afterward, Potter spells them clean and Draco rolls his eyes at the display of wordless, wandless magic. They lay in bed as they cool down, and Draco is surprised by the lack of awkward tension. It’s easy to lay beside Potter, both catching their breath. Once the sweat is chilling uncomfortably on his skin, Draco turns to face Potter to find him already staring back.

“I liked this,” Potter says simply.

Draco closes his mouth. He nods.

Potter grins and leans in to kiss him again.

 

 —

 

After that, it keeps happening. They go out to different pubs and taverns and bars every Friday—occasionally returning to the Leaky Cauldron for something familiar. It’s almost always the six of them, or at least the Golden Trio and Draco. There’s many drinks and sometimes food (besides bar peanuts and pretzels). There’s even dancing on a memorable night or two.

And then at the end of the night, Granger and Weasley leave together; Longbottom and Abbott leave hand-in-hand or hand-in-trousers, sometimes. And Draco goes home with Potter, or vice versa.

It’s spectacular, and easy, and Draco is unashamed to admit Potter is probably the best shag he’s ever had.

The only drawback is Draco simply  _knows_  it’s going to end in disaster.

 

Here’s why:

For one, they never do it any night other than Fridays. They don’t ever go out on Saturdays or after work during the rest of the week. They never stay the night, either; they’ll stay long enough to maybe shower together or spell themselves clean, spend a few leisurely minutes snogging, and then the other will apparate or floo back home.

Second, they don’t really talk about it. Sure, they agree on “your place or mine,” and they talk about what they want to  _do_  to one another. But they don’t talk about what it is or where it’s going—not that Draco is saying it needs to go anywhere, just that it’s probably not  _great_  that this  _thing_  remains unlabeled and free-flying.

Lastly, Granger’s knowing looks from before have steadily become more pitying as the weeks drag on, and Draco’s had just about enough of that.

 

 —

 

Draco’s back hits the doorknob and he groans in pain. “Bloody hell, Potter, have some manners, I’m a  _guest_.”

“You’re over often enough I’ve got a small collection of your pants growing in my closet, I think you can handle a doorknob to the back now and then.” Potter growls the words out against Draco’s mouth, and as hot as it is, it doesn’t distract Draco from what Potter just said.

“I’ve left my pants here?” He asks. It sounds inane, especially when they’re mostly undressed as it is, but he can’t help it. He had thought his underwear drawer at home was looking rather barren, but he hadn’t realized the reason why.

Potter furrows his brow. “Er, yeah?” You shuck ‘em off and leave em.”

Draco splutters. “I—how—are you  _serious?_ ”

Potter laughs. “I’m not lying about your pants, Draco, Merlin’s beard. I’ll grab them for you if you’re so bothered by it.”

Draco opens his mouth, but his tongue is too heavy. He swallows convulsively for a few seconds. “I had just wondered where all my underwear was going.”

“And it didn’t occur to you—?”

Draco shuts him up with a kiss. Later that night, Draco indeed finds a stack of his washed and folded underpants sitting in Potter’s bedroom closet. He gathers them up once Potter is dozing in the post-coital afterglow and takes them home.

 

 —

 

Draco looks up when something taps against his forehead. He blinks and realizes Granger is standing across the office, her wand raised, and the thing tapping against his head is a tiny paper crane enchanted to fly. He snatches it from the air and unfolds it.

_Come here._

He raises an eyebrow at her, knowing she can see it even from a distance, and gets an eyeroll in response. He vanishes the paper and stands.

“What?” He asks, not unkind but not exactly inviting either. He doesn’t talk to Granger much outside the pub nights, just as he doesn’t talk to Potter outside them.

Granger frowns. “Honestly, you’d think we weren’t  _friends_.”

Suitably scolded, Draco bites his lip. “We’re pub friends,” he says, which really doesn’t help matters.

Granger rolls her eyes again. “Ron and I are having a brunch at our home this Sunday, and I wanted to invite you. I finally convinced Molly to let me host the weekly brunch and we’ll have to miss tonight’s pub to finish getting things ready.”

Draco blinks. “It’s going to take you nearly two days to get ready for a Sunday brunch?” It’s not the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard—his father used to throw lavish brunches for various purebloods back in the day, and they were long affairs planned over several days. It does seem odd for Granger and Weasley to do such a thing, though.

Granger sighs. “Molly is being, well, a bit of a pain in my arse about it. I want to make sure everything is perfect.”

That, Draco understands. “Of course.”

“Great, so you’ll be there?”

Draco takes a startled step back. “I don’t know—that doesn’t seem appropriate. If it’s a family brunch, I’m hardly family.”

Granger’s frown returns but instead of chastising it’s just simply sad. “Draco—?”

“I appreciate the invite, Hermione, I truly do.” He reaches out and touches her shoulder briefly. She doesn’t flinch away from him and only looks at his hand, disappointed. “I just don’t think my presence would help matters. Thank you though, really.”

With that he turns on his heel and heads not back to his desk, but down a random hallway instead. Once out of Granger’s sight he ducks into the first unoccupied room he finds, which happens to be a storage closet. It’ll do.

He leans against a shelf and sighs. What on earth possessed Granger to invite him? She’s trying to make a good impression on the mother-in-law and thinks to invite not only a Death Eater, but one who had a very direct hand in the Weasley family’s misfortune? Honestly.

For all her brains, Draco has found Granger is downright mad sometimes.

 

Much like the shagging, that keeps happening too. Granger inviting him to things, besides their usual Friday night get-togethers.

Needless to say, it’s terribly off-putting.

Even worse when the two intersect: like when Potter brings up another Sunday brunch a few weeks later,  _in the middle of shagging_.

 

Draco chokes on his next moan. “Excuse me?”

Potter’s below him, panting and hips jumping and hands sliding across Draco’s sweat-slick hips. “Are you going to the brunch on Sunday?”

Draco gapes. “Have you lost the plot?” He asks seriously. He stops bouncing in Potter’s lap and slips his hands from his lover’s chest. He clings to the sheets beneath Potter’s body instead. “Why on earth would I go?” It’s a struggle not to grit his teeth, or to give in to the way Potter’s hips still twitch.

Potter has the gall to look hurt  _in the middle of shagging_. “Hermione—?”

“Oh, god, no, this is not happening.” Draco shifts and climbs from Potter’s lap. He shudders as Potter’s cock slips free with a wet sound. He turns and hurries into Potter’s attached bathroom. He’s tempted to shut the door behind him to really make a point but decides it’s ultimately too juvenile.

“Draco?”

“You did not just bring this up  _in the middle of shagging_.” Draco hollers back. He grabs a washcloth from the cupboard and wets it under the sink. As he drags it over his skin to clean off the precome and lube, he continues. “We were having a nice night. You could’ve at least brought it up  _after_. And no, I’m not going, by the way. Granger—Hermione—she’s invited me several times and I keep telling her that if she wants to impress Molly, having  _me_  there will not help.”  

Draco scrubs at his skin a little harder than necessary. This isn’t a conversation he wants to keep having, not with Potter or Granger or even himself.

He’s aware of his past misdeeds and  _far_  too conscious of people’s view of him. He has no doubt that Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, as nice as Potter makes them out to be, would not be pleased to sit across from Draco at a dinner table. There’s a phantom burn on the skin of his left forearm; even though the mark is mostly faded and hardly recognizable now, it’s still there. To Draco, at least. And to plenty of others. The fact that he manages to be naked around Potter is nothing short of a miracle.

“Draco?”

He startles and lets the washcloth drop to the floor. Potter is suddenly at the doorway of the bathroom. Draco scowls and snatches the damp cloth from the tile.

“It’s alright.”

“It’s not,” Draco bites back. He lets the washcloth fall into the sink and grips the edges of the basin. “I-I like where we’re at—all of us. Me and you, and me and Granger, and even me and Weasley and Longbottom and Abbott.” He gulps in air and tries to calm his racing heart. “It’s fine as it is.”

Potter stares at him, scrutinizing. When Draco won’t look directly at him, Potter catches his gaze in the reflection of the mirror instead. A beat passes and Draco holds his breath.

“Don’t you ever get tired of saying their last names? It takes so long.”

Draco scoffs weakly and silently thanks Potter for the out. “Granger is a syllable shorter than  _Hermione_ , thank you very much.”

“Yeah, but Ron is a syllable shorter, too, so. Equivalent exchange.”

Draco rolls his eyes but allows Potter to tug him out of the bathroom and back to the bed. They climb under the covers and Potter wraps his arms around Draco.

“Sorry about ruining the shag.”

Draco laughs against Potter’s neck. “It’s,” he falters, swallows, and continues. “It’s alright. Just try not to bugger up any others or I’ll have to start looking elsewhere.” It’s a farce, but it feels better to tease. Potter’s grin is pressed against the crown of Draco’s head.

“So, you’re not with anyone else?” Potter mumbles against Draco’s hair.

Draco frowns. “We established several weeks ago that I have no love life to speak of, for much the same reason as why I won’t go to Sunday brunch.”

Potter stiffens for a moment. “Yeah, but things change.”

Draco shakes his head and smiles as Potter squirms; Draco’s hair tickles at Potter’s face when they lay like this, and he  _always_  squirms. “You’re the only one I’m shagging, Harry.”

He doesn’t miss the way Potter’s breathing loses its rhythm for a split second. Then, “oh, yeah. Same, Draco.”

He laughs and rolls his eyes and lets Potter stay cozied up for a little while longer.

 

 —

 

After that, the invites to Sunday brunch mostly stop.

Not entirely, which Draco sort of appreciates. It would almost sting if the invites were to cease completely; but it’s no longer every week that he’s being invited and instead just every few weeks. They still have their pub nights on Fridays, even if Weasley and Granger seem to be going less often. Things settle back into the normalcy they created before the whole brunch mess.

Things carry on as usual—work, pub nights, shagging Potter after pub nights, Saturdays and Sundays to himself or with mother, then back to work—for a few weeks. Then, something even stranger than Granger inviting him to brunch happens:

Weasley brings him lunch. On a Tuesday.

Draco is minding his own and absently nibbling on a bag of carrots he brought when suddenly, there’s the screech of a chair being pulled up to his desk and the dull thud of a bag of takeout sitting on top of his outbox. Draco looks up slowly with his brows furrowing.

He swallows, then says, “Yes, please, have a seat, Weasley.”

The redhead nods. Weasley starts to dig into the bag and draws out two separate containers. “Figured you might be hungry. Was gonna meet up with Hermione but she had a meeting come up.”

Draco hesitantly accepts the container of what smells like sesame chicken and rice. “And Potter?”

“Same meeting.”

Draco ‘ah’s softly. “Third choice, not bad.”

Weasley shrugs. “George was busy, n’Luna had to go chase a story for  _The Quibbler_.”

“Fifth, then.”

“You want me to keep going?” Weasley taunts, but the curve of his lips is kinder than Draco expects. “Nah, you really were third. I was actually gonna drag Hermione n’Harry down this way, so we could all eat together but—”

“The meeting,” Draco finishes.

Weasley nods again. “’Sides, figure it wouldn’t kill us to hang out a bit.”

Draco cautiously picks at his chicken and rice. “I suppose not.” They eat wordlessly for a few minutes before Draco decides the silence is too much. “You and Hermione haven’t been coming to the bars as often.”

“She’s been taking Sunday brunch  _very_  seriously.” Weasley laughs to himself. “Mum doesn’t even make that big a deal of it, but you know ‘Mione. When she throws herself into something, she  _really_  throws herself into it. It’s going great, though.”

For a second, Draco expects Weasley to drop an invite to brunch this upcoming Sunday, but instead Weasley keeps talking.

“Plus, we’ve been putting in more time planning our renewal ceremony, n’that takes so much energy. Don’t renew your vows, Malfoy, it’s a lot of work.”

Draco raises an eyebrow. “I’ll keep that in mind, should I ever get married.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I love her.” Weasley simply shakes his head. “I’d rather just do a nice easy ceremony in our yard or something, but mum got into it too, and it’s just blowing up.”

“It must be nice, too, though.” Draco adds, swallowing his jealousy. “To have so many friends and family coming to visit, getting to… celebrate each other, that way.”

Weasley gets a somewhat dreamy look on his face. “Yeah, it’s pretty nice. Just bloody stressful.”

Draco nods. The silence falls again and it’s absolutely awkward, but not as tense. They eat quietly, and Weasley looks content and Draco relaxes the longer it goes on. He normally works while he eats his lunch, or often times he’ll skip lunch all together from losing himself in paperwork. It’s nice to have company, he’ll admit. Silently, to himself. He’d never admit it aloud.

 

 —

 

The brunch invites remain sporadic, but Draco quickly gets used to having company for lunch.

More often than not, it’s Weasley. He’ll either find Draco first—at his desk, typically, because Draco seldom goes anywhere else—and they’ll eat at there, or in the mess hall on that floor. Sometimes Weasley will all but drag Draco from the office to meet up with Potter and Granger. The four of them sometimes gather in the mess hall, sometimes at Granger’s desk, or rarely they’re go out and get something to eat.

Some days it’s just Potter, or just Granger, or just the three of them when Weasley ends up stuck at the joke shop. On one memorable occasion, Longbottom and Abbott swoop in and take Draco out to lunch all on their own.

Eventually, as much as Draco enjoys, he starts to get a little suspicious.

So naturally, he brings it up during shagging.

 

“What?” Potter gasps, his legs clenching around Draco’s hips.

“I think your friends are trying to seduce me.” Draco repeats as his movements slow. “In a friendly manner, but they keep whisking me away to eat lunch and make conversation.” He thrusts absently and digs his fingers into Potter’s hips. “It’s terribly confusing.”

Potter looks up at him with wide eyes. His mouth is open in a soft ‘o’ shape and his chest is heaving with the force of his panting breaths, but he looks entirely bewildered. “You’re upset that our friends are being friendly?”

Draco’s hips jump involuntarily at the word  _“our,”_  and he moans softly. “Of course I am. They’re barely my friends.”

Potter’s legs tighten on his hips and force him to stop thrusting. “They  _are_ your friends, too. You realize that, right?”

Draco rolls his eyes. “Of course I do. But—?”

“Oh, for the love of—” Potter curls a hand around Draco’s neck. He pulls Draco in close and ghosts a kiss over his lips. It’s painfully sweet and tender and Draco shudders. “Can we please stop talking about our friends in the middle of sex?”

Draco nods and presses his forehead against Potter’s. “Yeah, alright.”

 

“I do feel like something nefarious is afoot,” Draco mentions as they’re cooling under the covers.

“Who the hell says  _afoot_?” Potter’s response is mumbled into his pillow. “They’re being  _friendly_ , Draco. It’s what people do.”

 _Not to me_ , Draco thinks but doesn’t say. That’s far too melancholy. He just shrugs, and says, “It’s still odd.”

Potter laughs fondly. Draco’s thoughts drift back to the kiss from before, the one that was far softer and gentler than any other they’ve shared. Draco’s heart starts to hammer in his chest and he closes his eyes. Not for the first time, he wonders if he’s let this get out of hand.

As Potter presses a kiss to his neck, Draco thinks,  _far out of hand_.

 

 —

 

Draco does eventually accept that Weasley and Granger, and Longbottom and Abbott, and sometimes even Lovegood—they’re all just being friendly. It’s not that much of a change to his usual routine anyway. During the week, one or more of them will go out to lunch and Draco will come along, although sometimes he likes to mix it up—

The first time he stopped by Granger’s desk before she could get to his and asked, “so, lunch?” the look of surprise on her face had been  _priceless_ —

And on Fridays after work they all still end up at a pub. He and Potter still end up shagging but sometimes they just go back and share a drink at one of their flats, alone. Sometimes they might watch a muggle flick, or they’ll talk, or they’ll go back for “coffee” and a half-hearted snogging turns into actual coffee.

Draco figures he shouldn’t really shouldn’t be surprised by what happens next.

 

 —

 

Potter meets Draco at his desk; they floo or apparate together to pubs a lot of times, so they usually meet up at one of their desks or by the floo itself. It’s not unusual, though Draco does note that Potter is a few minutes early; that’s a feat for him, and Draco wonders if he should congratulate his friend on finally figuring out how to be on time.

Draco looks up with a quick smile before returning to the last dredges of his paperwork. He draws his quill across a few lines and makes annotations as needed. It takes a few minutes, but he knows Potter is content to wait. Eventually, he seals the document with a tap of his want and tucks it into a drawer of his desk.

“Ready to go?” He asks as he stands.

Potter nods. “It’s just us tonight.”

Draco blinks in mild surprise. Weasley had specifically told him they’d be free of brunch- and vow renewal-responsibilities for the first time in a couple weeks. Draco had thought they’d be there, tonight.

“Oh, that’s alright.” He shrugs his jacket on and follows Potter out of the office to the elevators. “Leaky tonight? Or maybe your place?”

Potter shakes his head, and Draco doesn’t miss the faint blush on his cheeks as he answers. “I found a new place to try.”

Draco hums. They haven’t tried somewhere new in a while. “Do they have food? I’m starved.”

Potter finally grins, and says, “Yeah, they’ve got food.” He leads the way to the floo and steps into the hearth first. He grabs a handful of green powder from the pot, and shouts as he throws it at his feet, “Eothal’s!”

Draco follows his example after a moment and steps out of the floo to find Potter waiting for him. Potter grins as they end up toe-to-toe outside the floo, and Draco’s cheeks burn. One of Potter’s hands grasps his elbow, gentle and warm, before sliding around and falling into the dip of Draco’s back. Potter uses the touch to steer Draco toward the bustle of the crowd within the bar, past full tables and wait trays rushing through the air.

They end up at a table tucked into a corner, as they often do. But as they sit across from each other, Draco notices that wherever they are, it’s definitely  _not_  a bar.

“Potter, what is this?”

“It’s Eothal’s,” Potter replies simply. He picks up a menu off the table after it appears with a faint shimmer of magic. “Hermione recommended it. Her and Ron come here when they want to go somewhere nice.”

Draco slowly lifts his own menu but doesn’t open it. “Somewhere nice,” he echos.

“Yeah. It sounded good. They’ve got a good wine selection.” Potter reaches and plucks a single page menu from the end of the table. He passes it to Draco as he keeps talking. “And they’ve got real food, not just pub grub.”

Draco takes the wine menu without thinking about it. “Uh-huh. So, this isn’t a  _pub_ , like usual.”

The blush is back on Potter’s cheeks. “No, it’s not.”

Draco considers replying, considers prying more answers out of Potter. Instead, he buries his face in the menu instead.

It isn’t until after they order that Draco bites the bullet.

“Is this supposed to be a date?”

The blush is back, worse than ever. Potter rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “A bit, yeah.”

“A bit,” Draco says faintly. “Uh huh.” He lets out a grateful sigh when his glass of wine floats over to the table. He wraps his fingers around the long stem and feels calmer even if he doesn’t take a sip. “A date.”

“Yes.”

“Why, exactly?” Draco can’t help asking, despite the part of his head (or maybe it’s his heart) telling him to keep his mouth shut.

“Why what?” Potter asks with a wry twist of his lips. “Why are we on a date? Why didn’t I ask you first? I think those are both pretty obvious.”

Draco frowns in the face of Potter’s sweet sarcasm. “I don’t agree.”

“We’ve been shagging for what, months now?” Potter asks rhetorically. “I fancy you, Draco. I like what we have but I’d like to have more, too. If you want that, too. And I think you do.” Potter looks a little smug but a lot hopeful; there’s not much caution in his expression, just the usual brashness Draco’s always known him to possess.

“Are you serious?”

Potter’s expression falters. “Yes?”

Draco finally takes a large sip of wine. “That’s—that’s mad, Harry.” The name slips out without his meaning to, and Draco wants to take it back. He wants to take the lot of it back; maybe not the friendship, but the shagging. Wants to go back to the first night he kissed Potter and keep it from happening because there’s no  _way_  this could work.

“I can see you being dramatic, in your head.”

Draco scoffs. “I am not.” His words come out fonder than he intended. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Potter leans forward, elbows on the table. “So we can be friends, and we can shag, but we can’t _date_? Which is basically those two things put together?” Potter keeps going without giving Draco time to answer. “Which is pretty much what we’re  _already doing_?”

Draco closes his eyes. “Dating changes things.”

“Would it really, for us?”

Their food arrives then and forces a lull in the discussion. Draco eats hurriedly and barely tastes it. Potter eats slower and with his eyes trained on Draco the entire time. It doesn’t take them long to clear their plates, and when a waitress returns to take their dessert orders, Draco quickly mutters, “None for me, thanks.”

Potter declines too, but only after shooting Draco a look that’s equal parts disappointed and confused.

“This was lovely, Potter, but I must be going.” Draco says. He stands and lets his napkin drop to the table while Potter is still fumbling with the bill. “See you around.” He’s weaving through the tables and other restaurant guests before Potter can catch up with him. Rather than heading to the floo, which has a bit of a line, he hurries to the front door and disapparates once he’s out of the building.

Landing in his flat, he rushes to his floo and closes it off before Potter can try and come through that way. Then he starts to pace. He runs his hands through his hair and strips out of his jacket and shoes and continues to pace. By the time he ends up in his bathroom, his hair is a frizzy mess and his clothes are wrinkled and his face is beet red.

He swallows and turns away from the mirror to strip out of his clothes. He starts up the shower, climbs under the spray and lets his mind go blank for a little while. By the time he’s scrubbed down and refreshed, he’s still feeling panicked, but he has a plan.

He’ll simply force everything back to some kind of normal. Not shagging-on-Fridays normal. Just, occasional lunch-on-weekdays and sometimes pub nights-on-Fridays and absolutely no brunch-on-Sundays or  _anything else_.

Draco nods to himself as he gets into his pajamas and crawls under the covers; his bed feels ridiculously large, the covers almost painfully cold. He scoffs at himself. He can sleep  _one_  Friday night without Potter, without shagging him first or splitting a pot of coffee or…

Draco doesn’t sleep much that night.

 

 —

 

Despite his plan to keep things mostly normal, he resolutely avoids his so-called friends the entire week and skips out on pub night. He just needs some space, he tells himself, and come the following week he forces himself to seek out Granger for lunch. He even invites Potter along and doesn’t even feel the slightest bit disappointed when Granger tells him Potter is out of office for the day.

That following Friday, Draco goes to the Leaky and meets up with the rest of them. Potter is there with a seat open to his left, but Draco sits to Longbottom’s right instead, and the whole table feels tenser for it. It’s the worst evening out Draco’s had in a while, and that’s counting the disastrous first date Potter tried springing on him.

Once Granger and Weasley have returned home and Longbottom has made his excuses to get back to Abbott, Draco and Potter are left standing alone outside the Leaky Cauldron.

“This is ridiculous,” Potter insists.

Biting back a snappish retort, Draco says, “It is. We’re friends. We can still be friends.”

“Draco.”

Draco ignores Potter’s stern tone. “I tried to invite you to lunch but Hermione said you were out of the office.”

“I was,” Potter replies harshly. “I wasn’t avoiding you. Not like  _you_  avoided us.”

Draco flushes indignantly. “I—?”

“Draco.” Potter takes a step closer and corners him against the wall outside the bar. Draco’s heart speeds up beating in his chest and he shoves his hands into his trouser pockets to hide the way he’s shaking. “I get it, you’re scared.”

“I’m—?”

“You think I’m not?”

Draco looks away from Potter’s painfully earnestly expression. “When are you ever?”

Potter laughs. “Of course I’m scared. You’re—you’re ridiculous, Draco. You’re dramatic and impossible to figure out sometimes. You’re smart and funny and you hide behind both of those things.”

Draco nearly swallows his tongue trying to figure out a way to protest. In the end, he stays silent while Potter keeps talking. When Potter takes another step closer, Draco raises a shaking hand to stop him.

“Of course I’m scared,” Potter says again. He pays no mind to the way Draco’s palm rests against his chest. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to pass on this.”

He reaches for Draco’s hand and Draco’s too stunned to pull away. Their fingers tangle together and Draco stares at the contrast of their skin tones rather than Potter’s face. From the corner of his eye he notices Potter shuffle closer until the toes of their shoes bump. Potter’s breath against Draco’s cheek is warm and a little wet and very shaky.

“This is going to blow up in our faces.”

Potter laughs. “There’s that unending optimism I love about you.”

Draco’s breathing catches in his chest.

“I’m going to kiss you now, and if you don’t hex me I’m going to assume we’re done talking about this, for now.”

Potter moves impossibly closer and Draco tilts his head up just in time. Their lips slot together seamlessly—they’ve had a lot of practice at it after all—and Draco sighs into the kiss. Draco raises his free hand and tangles it in Potter’s— _Harry’s_  hair and whines. Harry’s other hand grips Draco’s hip hard enough to bruise, and it strikes Draco how much he’s  _missed_  the touch, even though it’s barely been two weeks.

The kiss breaks eventually and Draco gasps for air.

“So?” Harry asks, breathing the words into Draco’s mouth.

“Alright, alright,” Draco breathes back. “I love you, too.”

Harry’s eyes are brighter and wider than Draco’s ever seen. His grin, too; it makes Draco want to kiss him again.

So he does.

 

 

 

 

**_epilogue_ **

“So,” Draco drawls. “Were the “brunch-responsibilities” and “vow-renewal responsibilities” all a sham?”

Harry snorts. “The fact that you believed those were things  _at all_  is impressive as it is.”

“Weasley and Granger are terrifyingly believable when they want to be.” Draco’s still a little miffed about being lied to.

Yes, Hermione had taken over Sunday brunches from Mrs. Weasley, but not  _every_ Sunday and it certainly wasn’t such a big affair that they needed to skip so many pub nights. Along with the plans for renewing their vows taking up so much of their time, it’d all been an elaborate plot to get Draco and Harry to spend more time together.

Draco appreciates the sentiment, miffed or not.

Harry opens his mouth to say something else but George leans over and shushes them. Harry grins sheepishly and Draco mouths an apology. Then, the music starts, and Draco turns his attention to the opposite end of the yard. Hermione is already stepping down the aisle slowly, to the tune of ethereal, not-quite-traditional music.

If nothing else, it wasn’t a lie about renewing their vows. They really are doing that, it just hadn’t taken  _that_  much planning. The ceremony  _is_  large, and beautiful, and full to the brim with Weasleys and the considerably less-numerous Grangers, along with Harry and Draco and various work friends.

As they watch Hermione walk slowly down the aisle in a soft, light summery dress, Draco startles when Harry’s knee bumps his own. Draco shoots him a sidelong smile and presses his knee back against Harry’s. It’s familiar, and the warmth of the touch is welcome even in the late spring, humid air.

“I was thinking,” Harry leans over and whispers under the thrum of music. “Fancy a drink after this?”

Draco doesn’t point out the fact that there’s a open bar. He grins back at Harry even as he never takes his eyes off Hermione, even as she stands with Ronald. Draco nods. “Your place or mine?”

It  _is_ Friday, after all.


End file.
